Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse than they already are, I come out of the bathroom of the Smiling Skull to see some guy punching Gonzalo.

Not that I really mind that part. Gonzalo is a freaking asshole. He deserves to be punched more than anyone I know. But right now, what I need from him is to tell me where the hell my sister is.

He knows. I know he does. But he’s acting like he has no idea what I’m talking about. He doesn’t even seem to give a damn whether I believe him or not. Which I guess he doesn’t have to. I’m at least a foot shorter than him, and probably a hundred pounds lighter. I can’t make him do a single thing. I don’t even know why I came here in the first place, thinking I would ever be able to change any of this. Tears prick my eyes and sting my throat. I’ve never felt so helpless and alone in my life. And given the life I’ve had so far, that’s saying something.

So, even though I came back out here to continue pleading with Gonzalo, I let myself have just a couple of seconds of pleasure and satisfaction watching the other guy land a blow to his face that sends him reeling backwards into a table.

“Fuck!” Gonzalo’s asshole friend screams, and lurches toward the biker. Gonzalo’s on the floor now, and so the biker easily has time to pivot, grab the second guy by the shirt, and launch him face first into the bar. His skull makes a sickening crack against the surface. I flinch and take a step back, instinctively reaching for my beer for something to hold in front of me. The bottle’s cool and soothing in my hand. I take a long drink to calm my nerves, then wait to see what will happen next.

Gonzalo gets to his feet, rage in his eyes and blood on his lips. But before he can charge at the guy who hit him, two more men wearing the same patches on their leather vests are there. One, an enormous hulk of a man, grabs Gonzalo and pulls him backward so hard that he lifts him completely off his feet. The other, dark and handsome with a strong, square jaw, grabs Gonzalo’s buddy by the neck and hauls him to his feet, his forehead bleeding profusely.

“If my brother punched you,” the huge biker says to Gonzalo in a low, menacing tone, “it means you deserved it. So I’d advise against continuing this fight, unless you want to carry your teeth home in a bag.”

“What the fuck?” splutters Gonzalo, blood and spittle flying from his mouth. “I’ve never seen this fucker before in my life!”

“Steady on, my friend,” warns the other biker in a brogue I think is Irish.

No one is paying any attention to me at all, which is just fine by me. Watching Gonzalo get owned by a bunch of toughs is quite entertaining. I decide just to enjoy the show while it lasts.

“What the fuck did I ever do to you?” Gonzalo yells. “I’m serious! I have no fucking idea what the hell is going on!”

“You didn’t do a goddamn thing to me,” the first biker snarls. “But you know damn well what you did to the lady here.”

I take another swig of my beer, finishing it, as they all turn to look at me.

The biker who punched Gonzalo’s eyes lock on mine. Then they slide down to the now-empty bottle in my hand.

“Oh, shit,” he groans.

* * *

“I am not going to stick my fingers down my throat,” I protest as the biker pulls me toward the bathrooms. “What the hell is going on?”

“That fuckbag roofied you,” he growls.

“What?” I ask in confusion. “You mean the date rape drug?”

“He slipped it into your beer when you were in the bathroom.”

A thread of panic starts to weave itself up through my consciousness. “You mean, it’s already in my system?” I cry.

“Not if you can get it out in time.” He pushes on the door to the women’s bathroom, but it’s locked. He lifts his large fist and pounds on it so hard I’m afraid it will splinter. “Get the fuck out of there, now!” he yells.

A few moments later, a frightened looking woman in tight red leather comes tottering out. “Jesus, hold your horses!” she starts to complain, but goes silent when her eyes lock on the furious-looking biker. “Sorry,” she squeaks, and skitters away. The man pulls me roughly through the door and locks it from the inside.

“Go on,” he urges. “You don’t have much time.”

I have no idea how to do this. I know it’s supposed to engage your gag reflex if you stick your fingers far enough down, but I’ve never tried it. Uncertainly, I stand in front of the toilet and lean over just a little, then stick my index finger inside my mouth until I touch the back of my throat. Instinctively, I recoil and start coughing. It’s too hard; it’ll never work.

“I can’t do it,” I wheeze.

“Yes you can,” he bites out. “Do it, or I’ll do it for you.”

Ugh. Okay, having a total stranger — especially a very hot one, I’m starting to realize — stick his finger down my throat is not something I want to experience tonight. And judging from the fierce look on his bearded face, he’s not kidding around. Gingerly, I stick my hand back in my mouth, close my eyes, and ram my fingers down my throat.

And promptly throw up all my beer into the toilet.

“Good girl,” the biker growls as I gag and sputter. Some of the beer has gone up through my nose, and a little bit is running down my chin. Gross. I grab at the toilet paper dispenser, pulling off a long length, and blow my nose, mortified. Then I grab another length and wipe at my eyes, which are watering.

“Come on,” the biker says. “Let’s get you out of here. Did you come with anyone?”

“No,” I gasp, and turn on the water in the sink. I cup my hands under the faucet, take a mouthful to rinse, and then another cup to drink. The third one, I splash on my face. “I came here alone.”

I turn around to see him frowning disapprovingly. “You came to a biker bar by yourself?”

In spite of myself, I jut out my chin. “It’s a free country.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Free to be an idiot.”

I resist the urge to tell him to fuck off, because after all, he did just save me from… something. Something definitely not good.

I shudder involuntarily.

Whatever he did just save me from, I can only imagine. Shit, has Gonzalo done this sort of thing before? People don’t just happen to have roofies on them, after all. Not unless they plan to use them. Has Gonzalo done this to my sister?

Up until now, I’ve always assumed Eden went with Gonzalo of her own free will. The thought that maybe I was wrong is horrifying. I swallow a sob, my face crumpling into the beginnings of panic.

“Hey, Jesus, I’m sorry,” the biker says, mistaking my look for hurt at his remark. “Look, though. Seriously, you shouldn’t be in a place like this. You look like a nice girl. You gotta be more careful.”

“I have my reasons,” I insist stubbornly. “I didn’t come here for fun.”

“Yeah? What are they?” One brow goes up as he stares at me pointedly.

For the first time, I take a moment to really look at his face as I try to think what to respond. He’s actually incredibly handsome. His hair is close-cropped. His dark beard only serves to accentuate the strong, square jaw beneath. Piercing blue eyes bore into me from under thick brows. Intricate tattoos cover the muscles on his arms. Even here in this gross bathroom, the guy pretty much radiates raw sexual power. I’m suddenly very aware that we’re in this tiny room all alone.

And that if we were anywhere else but a filthy dive bar restroom, I’d be hoping maybe he’d do something about it.

“It’s none of your business why I’m here,” I say uncertainly, my voice quavering. “Thank you very much for helping me. But I think I should leave now.”

“Yeah. You should,” he agrees, and reaches to open the bathroom door. I walk through it, trying to keep my head high and not look like someone who just barfed her guts out into a toilet. Back out in the bar, my hand instinctively goes to the small crossbody purse that has my keys and ID in it. The hot biker follows me. Glancing around half-fearfully, I notice that Gonzalo and his friend are nowhere to be seen.

“Where did they go?” I ask, half to myself.

The biker chuckles. “I imagine Thorn and Beast gave them an incentive to get the fuck out of here if they knew what was good for them.”

I should be relieved that I escaped Gonzalo’s bad intentions. But a spike of dismay shoots through me all the same. It was a stroke of luck that I even managed to find him here at this bar. Now that he knows I was looking for him, I’ve lost the element of surprise. I’m no closer to finding my sister than I was before I got here. Maybe even further away.

“Thanks again,” I murmur lamely to the biker, choking back tears that are threatening to surface.

If he notices I’m close to crying again, he doesn’t say anything. “Don’t mention it.” The ghost of a smile plays across his sensual lips. “It’s been a while since I got to punch an asshole. Felt good.”

“Well, bye,” I nod distractedly, and turn toward the front door of the bar. The biker’s hand shoots out and grips my bicep, stopping me in my tracks.

“Where you going?” he asks.

I frown in confusion. “Home.” I sway just a little bit in place, feeling kind of foggy. “My car’s out front.”

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not driving anywhere.”

“Why not?” I blink a few times, his face suddenly out of focus.

“Because you may still have some drug in your system. You’re gonna need to wait around here until we can tell for sure.”

“I’ll be okay,” I scoff, waving my hand in his face and almost stumbling. He catches me, a worried look in his eyes.

“No you won’t.” He puts an arm around my shoulders, holding me up. Peering into my eyes, he seems to see something he doesn’t like. “Shit. Yeah, you’re in no shape to drive.”

I open my mouth to protest, but close it again as it dawns on me he might be right. It feels like I’m starting to get really, really drunk, even though I’ve only had one beer. I can’t quite get my eyes to focus, or my muscles to work right. As much as I hate to admit it, I know I’d be crazy to try to drive in this condition. In a confused haze, I wonder how long it will last, and what I’m going to do until then.

The biker frowns, like he’s considering options. “Look, we better get you home so you can lie down,” he says finally. “Beast, Thorn,” he calls out to his two friends, who are back at their bar stools with drinks in front of them. “I’m taking off. See you later.”

“Later, brother,” the larger one calls back, lifting a finger at us.

The biker takes my hand and leads me outside into the cool evening air. I try to focus on walking and staying upright, but I’m distracted by how huge his hand is as it envelops mine. And how rough the skin is. I start to giggle to myself. I’m holding hands with a biker. It seems so absurd. Actually, everything’s starting to seem kind of absurd.

He stops us at a huge, low-slung, powerful looking motorcycle. “You gonna be okay to ride on the back of my Harley?” he asks in a worried tone, letting go of my hand. “All you gotta do is hold onto me and not fall off.”

I think about it, and flex my fingers open and closed to make sure my arms still work. They seem to.

“Sure,” I mumble. “I can do that.”

Watching me carefully, as though he’s afraid I might fall over, he slings a leg over the seat and straddles the machine. “Okay, get on,” he orders, nodding behind him.

My balance is off, so I have to put one hand on his shoulder to get my foot over the bike. Under the fabric of his T-shirt, his muscles tense. Belatedly, I realize this is probably not a man most people just touch without asking. “Sorry,” I mumble. The dress I’m wearing rides up a little as I raise my leg and climb over. Quickly, I yank it down under my butt, wishing I’d had the foresight to wear pants here instead.

Once I’m settled on the soft leather seat, the biker wordlessly leans down and grasps my leg just above the ankle. He places one of my feet, then the other, on some small foot pegs I didn’t notice before. “Keep your feet on those pegs,” he warns. “You don’t want to lose your balance or burn your foot on an exhaust pipe.”

“Okay,” I agree. By now, I’m struggling to focus on what he’s saying. Part of it’s the drugs. But part of it is the distracting closeness of this stranger, who’s already touched me more than any person has touched me in months.

“Put your arms around my waist,” he commands.

I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, and he’s basically the only thing keeping me from flying off of this one, so I do as he says. One weird silver lining about being roofied is that I’m not as scared about doing this as I would be if I was sober. Though, I probably should be. I’ve heard these things are death traps. Obediently, I lean forward and press myself against the back of his leather motorcycle vest, wrapping my arms around his waist like he told me to do.

It’s strange to be this close to a total stranger. The soft, worn leather of his jacket contrasts with the roughness of the Lords of Carnage skull and wings image sewn onto the back of it. His body is strong and powerful-feeling. Solid, like warm steel. The vest is open at the front, so the palms of my hands end up bracing against his hard abs through his shirt. Even through the fabric, his skin is radiating heat. As he reaches forward to turn on the bike’s engine, his stomach muscles ripple under my hands.

Between my legs, the hint of an ache begins, teased by the sudden vibrations of the bike.

“Where do you live?” he calls over the noise of the Harley.

“Oh. Uh, I don’t live here.” My brain’s getting fuzzier every minute. “I’m staying at the Parkside Motel. Off of Highway Five.”

“I know where it is,” he nods. “Okay. Hang on.”

And I do, trying as hard as I can to ignore the confused buzzing in my head and the low throb between my legs.